


Martyr

by thirdholmes



Category: Endeavour (TV)
Genre: Angst, Attempted Murder, Bank Robbery, Case Fic, Endeavour Morse Whump, Gen, Graphic description of gunshot wounds, Gun Violence, Hurt Endeavour Morse, Murder, Nobody is Dead, Serial Killers, Whump, also Morse is an uncle now, contract killer, faked, if it's not in the tags it didn't happen lads, really I'm very sorry, way too much angst
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-24
Updated: 2020-01-24
Packaged: 2021-02-27 09:07:09
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 9,732
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22384582
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thirdholmes/pseuds/thirdholmes
Summary: Detective Inspector Fred Thursday reflects on the fateful events that brought him to where he was standing now, preparing to attend the funeral of Detective Sergeant Endeavour Morse.After a now rogue contract killer on the run from police all over England finally made his way to Oxford, Cowley was ready to expect a dramatic end to his disastrous crusade, but nothing could prepare them for what it consisted of.And the cost it came at.But things, as they soon discover, are not always as they seem.
Relationships: Endeavour Morse/Gael Edwards
Comments: 19
Kudos: 72





	1. Thursday

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello, all! No, I haven't forgotten about Chiaroscuro, things have just been busy as of late but I should have an update not too far from now, promise. I unrightfully channeled my energy into this short fic (with all the chapters already up, huzzah), so you can enjoy this for now.

Fred Thursday stared at the sombre reflection in the mirror wondering what force in the universe he had upset to wind up standing in this place once again, just as he did all those years ago in London. 

It was the mirror set into the door of his and Win’s shared armoire, nothing special. Spots of rust flecked the edges in some places along with some enamel from a retouch of the whole set he’d been talked into doing a few years back as part of a short series of renovation projects. These interrupted the otherwise smooth, continuous sheet of reflective glass bounded by a somewhat elegant wood frame, making it harder to convince himself he was looking through a portal to the past and not a reflection of the present. 

Thursday never looked in the mirror. Not like this. His outfits were sparse in variety and hardly changed from day to day, so nothing more than a quick glance was necessary to make sure his tie was on right- although Win would often catch it before him. Shaving was another matter entirely. The bathroom mirror was small. It would never show him what he looked like now. 

His uniform was stiff and unyielding to his new size- he’d been considerably fitter upon receiving it- and absurdly formal. All shiny buttons and straight lines. Thursday couldn’t even call to mind the last time he’d put it on. All he saw was an unrecognizable version of himself wearing something similar as he watched them put Mickey Carter in the ground. 

And now he was meant to wear it to the funeral of Endeavour Morse. 

Another one of his men dead. 

It was the cruelest form of deja vu imaginable. 

The louder part of his mind was screaming that Morse would absolutely abhor the ridiculous ceremonial show of it all, that he’d rather everyone be standing in their shirt sleeves and slacks rather than the department uniforms that sat in the backs of closets until such occasions. 

The lad often joked rather wryly about having one of the poorest funerals imaginable, with perhaps no one but his sister, Joyce, in attendance. There was a telltale hint of sadness in his eyes that Thursday saw beyond the smile, but Morse didn’t seem too put out by his prospects. He’d like it that way, he said. Joyce would know to read A.E. Housman, or Arthur Hugh Clough. 

But not T.S. Eliot. Thursday could picture Morse throwing his head back and scoffing, calling him ‘too morbid’ for his tastes. But maybe that was just Thursday projecting his own distaste. Eliot’s “I have measured out my life with coffee spoons” was a bit too painful to swallow. Especially now.

Bright had taken it upon himself to call Joyce, not Thursday. He was slightly relieved, but not at the same time. Morse had been his bagman. His second son, in a way. His responsibility.

His _ fault.  _

Thursday should have been the one to tell her. But Bright was the superior officer, so it fell to him. He would inform Morse’s sister. No longer Joyce Morse, but Garrett. Joyce Garrett.

Thursday found the phone number in Morse’s personal notebook, a shabby, well-worn leather thing with a band tying it all together. It wasn’t a diary or journal of any sort, nothing intimate, just some place for his thoughts that wasn’t his head. Joyce had a recent change of address, Thursday recalled Morse telling him after conversation was practically pried from him during a grueling stakeout. New flat, new number. As Morse’s sole family contact, he should have updated his file accordingly. He never got around to it. 

_ Never would,  _ that voice in the back of Thursday’s head said. 

As he flipped through the pages to find the number, something slipped out between the pages, fluttering to a halt when it reached the desk surface. Thursday frowned and picked up what appeared to be a small photograph, no bigger than a few stamps put together. 

It was Joyce, he knew easily enough. At first glance it would be impossible to see her as Morse’s kin but their shared father’s traits were easy enough to pick out eventually. In her arms, sleeping soundly, was a newborn baby, swaddled in a blanket with flowers stitched along the edges. The father- Philip- was dark haired young man with kind eyes and had his arm around his wife’s shoulders, beaming down at the baby. Joyce’s smile was radiant, if a bit tired. 

A new mother. 

Thursday felt himself go utterly numb the longer he looked at it. Had it really only been two weeks ago that he walked into the station to see Morse at his desk, phone pressed to his ear, that same photo in his hand? He wore most brilliant smile that Thursday had ever seen on the young detective, his entire face lit up, eyes practically sparkling. A few minutes later, Thursday stepped back out from his office and asked what it was about. Half in a daze, Morse looked up at him, still smiling. 

_ “I’m an uncle.” Morse said breathlessly, handing over the photograph.  _

_ “Congratulations, Morse,” Thursday clapped him on the shoulder and took a look at it. “Oh, she’s beautiful.”  _

_ “Her name is Marilyn. Marilyn Joyce Garrett.” _

_ “That’s lovely.” Thursday said truthfully.  _

Morse, for all his eloquence, could only nod, struck speechless with joy. 

Joyce had gained a daughter and lost a brother in a matter of days. 

It wasn’t bloody right. 

Bright got off the phone with Joyce and summoned Thursday to relay some news. 

_ “She won’t be able to attend the funeral,” he said regrettably, hands trembling as he tried to light a cigarette. “Mrs. Garrett had a difficult pregnancy and she’s not fit to travel, doctor's orders. And of course there’s the matter of the little one.” _

He had to ask her about Morse’s… arrangements. After all, Morse never really specified anything.  _ Well of bloody course he didn’t!  _ The lad had only just turned twenty-nine a few months ago in autumn. Who knew if his views had changed in the years since he indicated on a form that he trusted his family or the brass to handle things. There were papers now for him to have said how, when, where, even the damn music he wanted playing. But Morse was young. He didn’t know. The world hadn’t given him the chance to reach thirty. He shouldn’t have had to plan his own funeral before then. 

Gael Edwards might have had some clue having lived with Morse, but the nurse had been scarce the past few days and Thursday couldn’t blame him in the slightest. Grief took people differently and Edwards- well, he’d lost something that very few knew about. Something closer than just a friend. 

Bright said Joyce had been at a loss. She knew he wouldn’t want a Catholic burial like their father’s, and it wasn’t as if he still had any Quaker ties. His views on cremation were unknown. Apparently Bright had asked how she felt about a police burial. Nothing too extraordinary. They would handle everything for her, expenses and all. She agreed. 

_ “Just do him right.” _

So there Thursday stood, trying his damndest but cursing the sharp formality of it all. It didn’t seem right. Yes, Morse deserved a proper police burial. He couldn’t think of anyone  _ more _ deserving. But something about it just felt…  _ off.  _ Not quite fitting for the man with the soul of a poet rather than a battle-hardened copper’s heart. _ No, _ Thursday thought. Morse would rather have a quiet affair. Something small, something peaceful. Something with poetry and music. 

Or maybe Thursday didn’t know what Morse wanted. Maybe it was just all too much for  _ him.  _

Eight days was not enough time to grieve. It was not enough time for all the chairs he wanted to throw, glasses he wanted to break, tears he wanted to shed. Not enough time to console his guilt into something slightly less suffocating. 

_ He could still hear the shots. Thursday’s own voice sounding a million miles away as he shouted, too late to act. The hot, sick feeling of Morse’s blood on his hands, the way his eyes looked as he stared up at Thursday, wide with panic, fear, almost  _ pleading _ to not let him die- _

“I can’t do this.” Thursday finally said aloud, and Win’s hand appeared at his shoulder, the other messing fretfully with the stiff collar on the uniform. 

“Then don’t,” she said softly, leaving the collar be. “I’ve got your suit downstairs, starched and pressed. Joan won’t be here for another half hour, you have time to change.”

He turned and kissed her on the cheek, unsure of how to express just how grateful he was that she seemed to understand everything so perfectly, even in such an awful and confusing time. “You’re a godsend, Win.”

“I know,” she agreed with as much of a smile as she could muster, smoothing the front of her prim black dress and touching the necklace at her throat. “Now go on, get yourself out of this uniform.”

Joan arrived on time for once, face flushed red from tears that she was wiping away on the sleeve of her peacoat. Like her mother, she wore a black dress, but also had on a band of pearls Thursday vaguely remembered gifting her for her twentieth birthday. He’d thought he’d see her wear them on her wedding day, if or when it came. Instead, she’d worn them to Win’s brother’s funeral not too long ago. And there they were again. 

“Alright, dad?” she wrapped her arms around him and held him tight in a way she hadn’t done in years. Not since she stopped being a child too soon. 

“Alright, Joanie,” he said hollowly, trying to convey some reassurance but failing. Win helped him into his coat as Strange pulled up with the car. He gave the inspector an odd look before straightening the sleeves of his own uniform, but he didn’t question the attire of his superior officer. Hardly a word was spoken as they climbed into the car and drove off. 

To bury Endeavour Morse. 


	2. Mercer

The killer’s name was James Mercer. The man had been a ghost up until very recently when he made a mistake that revealed his identity to the world- and England’s police force. He left a witness. 

As far as anyone knew, Mercer was a hired gun that acted on very loose contracts with organized crime or those with deep enough pockets and shallow enough hearts. He had over ten kills to his name- that they  _ knew  _ of- and was a masterful disguise artist. Over the past few months the Home Office had rallied law enforcement in the cities around London to dredge up their unsolved deaths, suspicious suicides, disappearances, and to comb through recent records for any sign of the man’s trail. In London alone they discovered three murders; one being the death of a young woman that had been contracted to Mercer under one of his assumed names, Adam Worth, by an MP who was afraid of his affair being discovered. The girl had been nearly two months pregnant, according to the pathologist. A prominent judge had been found with his gavel put through the back of his head, and the list of suspects had been too long until it was discovered that one of them had shared a cell with Mercer in HMP when he was in for a hit and run car accident. An accident, they later discovered, he had committed while speeding away from another murder, the death of a wealthy businessman made to look like an accident so his son could gain his inheritance before it was burnt through. He was out in three years for “good behaviour”. 

It was just last month that Mercer slipped up for the second and last time. Up in Cambridge he went after a don that had racked up quite a gambling debt with the wrong sort of people so Mercer shot him as he was walking out to his car from a pub. No one heard the shot- it was clear he’d used a muffler- but an employee saw him dragging the body into the alley and rushed back inside to fetch two off duty officers. They ran out and accosted Mercer who shot them each in the chest and fled as more officers arrived. 

This time, Mercer wasn’t able to clean up the scene. He had to flee. One of the officers was dead by the time paramedics arrived but the other held on long enough to explain he actually fought hand to hand with Mercer before being shot and had scratched him across the face, gathering skin and blood under his nails in the process. He was able to relay this information before he passed and the DNA evidence was processed rapidly, connecting the man to the James Mercer from the London hit and run, then to James Mercer the contract killer. 

That same night he shot his way through a police blockade, killing another copper. Mercer dumped his car, exchanging it for the dead officer’s. The next day, a small convenience store was held up in Luton and a man answering Mercer’s general description made off with a couple hundred pounds. The police vehicle was found in a car park in Aylesbury by the turn of the week, another car stolen from the same scene to replace it. 

Steadily, like a hawk circling its prey, Mercer was getting closer and closer to Oxford. He was on the run, maybe even a little desperate. But Thursday knew from experience that desperation in a man like Mercer wasn’t a sign of weakness. If anything, it made him more dangerous. 

\------

_ “All units, please respond.”  _ Static. _ “-robbery in progress-” _

Thursday’s hand shot out and he fumbled for the volume dial on the radio in the car as Morse glanced over, keeping his hands firmly on the wheel, eyes returning to the road ahead, but Thursday knew the sergeant was listening well enough. Through the mess of static and feedback he was able to discern the location, a bank not a few streets away from their current location. 

“That’s hardly half a mile away.” Morse pressed down on the accelerator and rushed through the end of a light, turning and sending them in the proper direction. Thursday swore at the sudden shift from Morse’s usual careful driving to an urgent sort that verged on recklessness. Jakes had always driven like there was a building on fire and Strange seemed too friendly with the brake, but thankfully Morse was largely unaffected by their influences. Thursday wouldn’t have been able to stand it otherwise. 

Still, they were lucky there wasn’t ice on the ground. 

The description continued to say that the lone suspect was armed and shots had already been fired in the bank. Any responding units were to come in quietly so as not to drive him into a panic. 

“Take a side street,” Thursday instructed as Morse drove, pointing him down a smaller road that would get them close to the bank without being spotted from the windows. Undoubtedly, the other officers would choose to gather there as well. Morse did as he was told, slowing down to accomodate for the narrow street. 

“Sir?” Morse’s blue eyes flicked over to look at the inspector, a flash of epiphany behind them. “It’s Mercer, isn’t it? It only makes sense.” 

Morse wasn’t wrong, as usual. The bank in question was close to the A40, a major road that went cross country from London to Wales. While it didn’t seem to be a choice limited to Mercer at first, Thursday quickly caught on to what he presumed were Morse’s assumptions. If Mercer continued southwest-ward in the manner he’d been traveling since Cambridge that road in particular would get him rather far in terms of west. At Gloucester, Mercer would be able to take his pick of going either north or south to the Birmingham and Bristol airports. If he so chose, he would be able to catch a boat on the Severn. He’d be out at sea in a matter of hours. 

It was a good road for someone on the run. 

If their hunch was correct, that is. 

He remembered the briefing following the Luton robbery and how afterward Morse had stared at the board with a perplexed look on his face, fingertips resting on his lips as he thought. 

“He stays in the area after each kill,” Morse murmured to no one, but was close enough for Thursday to hear. 

It was damned peculiar, Thursday agreed, especially when he could have been out of the country in the time between Cambridge and then. But it wasn’t at the top of the list of concerns. 

Ever since Luton, Cowley had been on high alert, keeping an eye out for Mercer, but he’d gone quiet after getting rid of the police car. Now, Thursday was wondering if perhaps those few weeks lying low had culminated in the plot to rob the bank they were currently heading toward. 

Thursday noticed Morse’s hands tighten on the wheel as they approached the bank, his knuckles going bone white. It was too soon since the Matthews brothers case. Not even a year gone. 

His own private concern was that James Mercer had shown no hesitation at killing police before and he never left anyone that he meant to kill alive. Anyone who crossed him was an enemy on principle, meaning that every person with a badge was a walking target in his eyes. 

They arrived in less than a handful of minutes and Morse killed the engine, parking them a fair distance behind another CID vehicle. The early March chill wasn’t too extreme, but it was enough to make Thursday regret not bringing his gloves that day. Morse looked fit to freeze in his thin coat, still not having gotten a new one like he assured Thursday he would. Ever the saver, never the spender. It was commendable, but not when the elements were out to get you. 

Strange was already on the scene, aiding in coordinating the rapidly arriving officers to vantage points around the entrance to the bank. Upon seeing the two of them he shoved past a constable and hurried toward them, expression grave. 

“Sergeant?” Thursday prompted, and Strange drew in a breath, looking back at the bank. 

“He made the hostages draw the blinds on the windows so we can’t see what’s happening inside.” Strange supplied, and they watched as another car came up carrying Bright and several other officers. “One of the girls at the counter saw the suspect’s weapon and was ready to hit the alarm once he drew it. She says there’s two others tellers in there, the manager, a consultant, and three customers.”

Morse frowned. “‘She says’?”

Strange nodded toward his vehicle where, sure enough, a young woman sat huddled in a shock blanket and coat talking to an officer. “He let her go. She claims he threatened to kill someone if whoever set off the alarm didn’t come forward. That’s the shot we have reported. He fired into a wall and she confessed, then he threw her out of the building. I quote “he said he respects people who tell the truth”. Bloody mess this is.”

That was certainly one way of putting it. 

“Any demands?”

“No, sir.” Strange shook his head. “I’ve got a man keeping his ear on the radio to see if he calls the station. There are phones in there, he’s just not using any.”

“Do we know if it’s Mercer?” Thursday inquired, glancing at Morse to see if he was listening. It appeared that he was, but his eyes were focused elsewhere, somewhere near the building. 

“The clerk hasn’t given us a positive identification since we don’t have any photos on hand but the description does match James Mercer,” Strange affirmed to the best of his ability. “One of Bright’s men might be bringing a picture.”

“Sir.” Thursday said stiffly as Bright approached, his mouth drawn into a thin line as he assessed the officers around him readying their firearms. 

“Thursday. Morse, Strange.” he addressed them rather distractedly, folding his hands behind his back. “Our witness just confirmed it’s Mercer. He’s darkened his hair and hasn’t shaved since his last photo, but it’s him. We found the stolen vehicle from Aylesbury just around the corner with what looks to be several facial prostheses in a case, but for some reason he’s chosen to forgo those.”

Morse turned back to address the small group, his jaw set firmly. Thursday recognized that look of his, the face of a prophet about to deliver his word. 

“He knows his game is up,” Morse accepted a handgun offered to him by Strange. “His face has been seen by every uniform in the area so there’s no point in hiding since we know he’s here. Increased police presence doesn’t deter him. There’s a small service lane that goes around to the back, meaning there must be another entrance somewhere, and he can’t cover both at once. It won’t be too difficult to get inside, but he won’t surrender if we do. He’ll shoot his way out or die trying.”

Thursday arched an eyebrow, well knowing that Morse’s astuteness should no longer be a surprise to him by then, but sometimes he did have that ability. 

Bright looked very pleased, nodding as if Morse were repeating an idea that he himself had already come up with. “Very good. Yes, well, getting in the bank is one matter, but what happens after that is entirely different. Division was notified immediately of course, given the proximity of James Mercer’s spree, and they have given strict orders that he is not to be negotiated with. They have more men arriving in a matter of minutes. It ends here and now.”

The finality of the phrase sent a chill through Morse that had nothing to do with the weather. 

Just as the promised reinforcements arrived, shouts sounded from within the bank and Morse’s head jerked when a solitary shot rang out. A scream came from inside, followed by a pained wail. The officers nearest the door cocked their weapons.

Bright had gone stone still. It took a moment before he seemed to come back to himself and steel up, jutting his chin out authoritatively. “Inspector, go with Morse to this back entrance and take Constable Tate with you, he’s light on his feet. Hold your ground until I give the word. I’ll use the speaker and try and establish a line of communication so we can see about that impossible surrender. Strange, with me.”

Thursday fetched the constable in question and ran with Morse to the back of the building down a lane too narrow for anything more than a single vehicle to pass through it, likely built for the armoured bank trucks or payroll deliveries. The cobblestones were littered with cigarette stubs and odd bits of rubbish, but soon a small loading area came into view, bounded by buildings and the bank itself. Sure enough, there was a back entrance. 

The familiar whine of feedback from the speaker pierced the tense silence and Bright began speaking to Mercer. Thursday saw Morse jolt a bit at the sudden sound, his nerves no doubt alight with energy, but there was no telling it by looking at his face. In his eyes there was his usual steely determination, a flame that hardly ever sputtered against even the harshest of winds. His jaw was set firmly, hands locked around the gun, taking dead aim at the closed door. 

He’d never seen Morse fire a weapon in the field. Bright showed him his results from the firing range once and they were impressive considering the fact that he’d never had use for shooting in all his years of service, both in Signals and police. Thursday had decided to go to the range with Strange and Morse to observe both of the sergeants as they trained. It was the first time he ever saw Morse shoot. Strange, to his credit, got fair marks on his target, but Morse had proven himself to be a surprisingly effective marksman. Not a single shot strayed. 

_ “He’s got those steady musician’s hands,”  _ Strange had joked over drinks after. 

Morse argued that he wasn’t a musician and choir hardly qualified. Steady hands or not, he was a damn good shot. 

But he wasn’t a killer. 

That was why when the back door flew wide open and Mercer burst outside, already shooting, and Tate was struck down, Thursday’s shot at his head missed and Morse fired two consecutive rounds, the first clipping his shoulder, the second burying itself in it. 

Mercer howled in pain and lunged at Morse, too quick for Thursday to reload or Morse to aim accurately, tackling the sergeant to the ground, his gun going flying. Thursday took cautious aim, afraid he would end up hitting his bagman, but within moments Mercer overpowered him, a punch to the temple stunning Morse into submission. 

The man dragged Morse to his feet with him, his jacket shoulder already soaked through with blood from the freely bleeding wound. Somehow, Mercer was still holding his gun, and Thursday froze once he realized exactly where it was. Pressed under Morse’s jaw. 

“Fucking bastard copper,” Mercer spat, his unnerving amber eyes flaring with a seething rage. He wrapped his free arm around Morse’s chest, holding the detective against him like a shield, taking an awkward step backward. His now black hair was plastered to his brow with perspiration in spite of the cold. “Drop the gun, old man, or we’ll all get to see what the inside of your boy’s head looks like.”

Morse grit his teeth and stared directly at Thursday. “Sir, don’t listen to him!”

He wanted to stand his ground like Morse said. He wanted to put a bullet in Mercer. Glancing over at Tate, he saw the constable clutching his arm, blood soaked through his sleeve. Lucky. He’d been lucky. But Morse wouldn’t be. Not like this. His words weren’t even near enough to make Thursday so much as hesitate. He knelt slowly, placing the weapon on the ground, backing away with his hands raised.

First mistake. 

“Sir-!”

Mercer dug the gun deeper into Morse’s neck, growling. “Shut up, you-”

“FREEZE, POLICE!”

The next few chaotic moments occurred far too rapidly. 

Strange was barreling toward Mercer, weapon raised, reinforcements close behind him. With an outraged roar, Mercer shot at him, striking a bit of wall just by his head, missing. 

“Go on, shoot!” Mercer bellowed, swinging Morse around to face them. “It’s him or me, lads! You only get one!” 

With Mercer’s focus- and weapon- off him, Thursday reached for Morse’s fallen gun and seized it just as Morse did the unthinkable, yelling, “STRANGE, DOWN!”, stomping on Mercer’s foot and throwing his head back, the criminal’s nose breaking with an audible  _ CRACK.  _

Mercer cried out in agony, shocked, and Morse wrestled the gun from his hand as a shot went up into the air, hitting a brick wall. By the time Morse had taken aim, Mercer was already backing away and reaching for his waist-

_ BANG! BANG! _

The recoil from the poor form threw Thursday’s shot off and he hit Mercer’s hip just as the other man ran toward a pile of canvas by an alleyway, aiming blindly behind him and pulling the trigger at the same time as Morse. 

He’d hit Mercer solidly in the side, nearly taking him down. But Mercer had returned the favour. 

Morse’s body jerked unnaturally and he staggered backwards from a mist of red, his lips parted, eyes tight with pain, but he still raised Mercer’s stolen gun even as he fell-

_ No.  _ Thursday thought numbly.  _ NO-  _ “MORSE!” 

Strange and two other constables fired at Mercer, only one of the three striking home in the duffel slung over his back, but Mercer was far from done. He took one final shot at Morse that sent him to the ground for good, and Thursday fired blindly, yelling something incomprehensible, unable to take his eyes off Morse-  _ Morse.  _ His thin chest was spasming as he coughed up his own precious blood, pale, lost hands frantically pressing into the two wounds, a bone chilling cry wrenched from him. 

“Morse!”

Thursday was at his side in an instant, throwing the gun aside and letting Strange handle Mercer, not even looking up when he heard more shots and the revving of a motorbike. He shucked off his coat and swung it over Morse, catching only a brief glimpse of the two wounds in his chest, one fairly close to his side, but the other- 

“Hang in there, Morse, you just hang in there-!” Thursday looked around desperately as he heard the wailing of ambulance sirens, practically screaming, “MAN DOWN OVER HERE! HELP!”

A choking sound brought his attention back down to his bagman, and suddenly Thursday forgot how to breathe. Morse’s eyes were clear, nearly colourless in the light as they were thrown open in agony, tears rolling down the sides of his face. His pale lips were speckled with red, and his hands had escaped from underneath Thursday’s coat, frantically grabbing at his arms. Blood on his white shirt. 

“Sir, I-” Morse caught sight of his own bloodied hands and his face went past white, straight to grey.

Thursday scrambled to put pressure on the wounds, forcing a reassuring look on his face, even though he could feel the blood seeping through the thick material of the jacket-  _ please God let this be enough-  _ “It’s going to be alright, son. Just stay awake, Morse, alright? Stay awake, son. Stay with me.”

“Stay…” Morse repeated hoarsely, his eyes widening even more. 

“That’s right, Morse,” Thursday encouraged, feeling the burn of tears in his eyes. He looked up and saw a gurney rolling toward them, relief flooding him. “Stay.”

“H- stay-” Morse struggled, his head falling to the side to see the medics, and his mouth fell open in a small gasp, more tears spilling over.  _ “Oh- n- no-”  _

Thursday took another look at the medics and saw three of them rather than the two he was accustomed to. He recognized one as being named Simmons, the other Hardy. And the third-

Morse had mentioned he was going through EMT training since the hospital was short, saying he would go wherever he was needed most-

_ But why of all the days had Gael Edwards gone out on the run with them today?  _

The gurney kept moving with Simmons and Hardy but Gael went deathly pale and froze, staring down at Morse and Thursday as if he couldn’t quite believe what he was seeing. 

“No.” Gael said quietly, taking a staggering step forward. Then, louder, “No, no, nO, NO, NO!”

He ran and fell to his knees across from Thursday, one of Morse’s hands drifting weakly up toward him with Gael grasped between his own, tears falling as he stared in shock, forgetting himself. 

“Sir, we need you to move,” Simmons lowered the gurney and nodded to Hardy who lightly pushed Thursday away, grabbing hold of Morse’s shoulders. “Edwards, support his middle, alright? I’ll get his feet. Edwards! DAMN YOU, MOVE IT!” 

Gael jerked back as if stung, quickly releasing Morse’s hand even as the injured man let out a pained keen, hand falling limp as he reached for him again. The three got him onto the stretcher in a matter of seconds and he was in the ambulance in less than a minute, Thursday jumping inside just in time for the doors to latch. 

“Edwards, try and keep him calm, we’ve got this.” Hardy said, and they set to work. 

Thursday watched in a horrified daze as the medics moved and Gael eased Morse’s head up so he could slip on the oxygen mask. He was then remanded to the sidelines, unable to do much more than hold Morse’s hand while the IVs went in and blood transfusions began. Simmons and Hardy worked around them, calling out words that Thursday had heard before but couldn’t then process. Words that belonged in the mouth of a battlefield medic, words that should be used on someone else, not Morse,  _ please, no- _

Morse’s lips were moving as he tried to speak, broken sounds emitting from his throat, an effort that clearly pained him. 

“S- stay-” 

“It’s okay, we’re not going anywhere, Morse,” Gael soothed, brushing back Morse’s sweat soaked hair from his forehead as his cohorts worked to stop the bleeding. Somehow that gesture seemed to visibly help Morse more than anything the others were doing. “You’re going to be fine, you’ve just got to be strong for us, alright?”

“He- st-” Morse looked at Thursday with an expression that was a confusing mess of pleading, frustration, and sheer agony. 

“He’s staying, Morse,” Thursday assured him, a sharp sensation lancing through him at the fact that Morse was fearing their abandonment as he lay on his- no, he couldn’t say deathbed. He  _ couldn’t.  _ Morse would pull through, everything would be fine-

He tried to find some form of reassurance in Gael’s eyes but his expression was guarded, a mix of practised medical stoicism concealing what Thursday recognized as worry. He was just as scared as Thursday, but he was able to hide it much better. For Morse’s sake. 

“Mer… cer…” Morse shook his head and Gael squeezed his hand gently.  _ “Stay.” _

“We’ll get him. I promise.” Thursday vowed.  _ Even if it means I have to put a bullet in his head for this.  _

Morse sighed and closed his eyes, sending a jolt of panic through the inspector, but he saw Morse’s fingers still moving, tapping on the back of Gael’s hand. Some kind of melody, Thursday dimly assumed. Perhaps Gael knew the song. 

The ambulance came to a halt and the nurse gently removed Morse’s hand from his own, helping the other EMTs unload him from the vehicle, rushing him inside, leaving Thursday on his own.

He collapsed into the nearest chair, closing his eyes, trying to drown out the sound of his too-fast heartbeat, the bright lights, the blood on his arms and hands. 

Thursday sat. And he waited. Because he couldn’t leave. How could he? Morse had even said.

_ “Stay.” _

\------

Strange arrived in another ambulance with Tate and another constable, both sporting gunshot wounds. Just injuries, nothing fatal. Tate had been shot clean through the arm, the other man had a line grazed across the side of his head. A close call. 

“He got away.” was all Strange could get out before Thursday threw his chair over, expecting it to break, but the wood was resilient and held up against the attack. 

_ “How?!”  _

Strange looked around at the staring hospital staff and righted the chair, indicating they both sit. “He had a motorbike stashed in the alley. We couldn’t keep up on foot and by the time we got into our cars he was long gone. Division’s got the city locked down like marshall law. If Mercer’s not already out, he won’t be able to leave.”

That did very little to reassure him. 

“Morse got him good, sir,” Strange said after a moment. “Mercer didn’t look like he could move too well, it was a bloody miracle he escaped.”

_ Miracle?  _ “Just the opposite, sergeant.”

The doors flew open and a uniformed man from Division- the acting ACC- strode inside. His name escaped Thursday at the moment, and all he could suddenly focus was the man’s short cropped red hair. Redder than Morse’s, but close enough to remind him. 

“Sir-” Thursday rose to meet him but the Assistant chief constable shook his head and waved Thursday back, storming down the hall with purpose toward the room where Morse had been taken. A nurse said something in protest, but eventually he was admitted. 

Strange looked at Thursday hesitantly. “Sir?”

Thursday gave him a look.

“Morse saved my life.” It wasn’t a question, but a firm statement. “Mercer nearly got me that once. Had he another chance, I don’t think I’d be sitting here.”

_ But maybe Morse would.  _

Strange cleared his throat, shifting in his seat. “He’s going to make it. Morse. I mean- he’s got to.”

Thursday wished he could share his optimism. Strange hadn’t seen all that blood, hadn’t seen his  _ face- _

The ACC reappeared after what felt like an age, stopping to stand in front of the two. “You’re Bright’s aren’t you?”

Thursday raised an eyebrow at that comment but nodded nonetheless, standing and shaking the man’s hand. “DCI Fred Thursday. This here’s DS Strange.”

“ACC David Knott.” ACC Knott’s expression was grave. “So that would make it DS Morse in surgery, I take it?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Did he happen to say anything to either of you about Mercer?” Knott inquired, glancing between the two officers. “Anything that may be pertinent to the investigation?”

Strange looked like he wanted to punch Knott in the face, and Thursday couldn’t blame him in the slightest. Was that why he’d tried to go into the operating theatre? To see if Morse was fit to say something because he didn’t have the patience to wait? 

“No, sir,” Thursday said honestly, gritting his teeth.  _ The gall- _

ACC Knott nodded curtly, adjusting his specs. “Very well, then- what on earth-”

A sharp shout had caught their attention and nurses bolted up from the desk, running through the doors to the other corridor where the surgeries were. 

Where Morse was. 

“No.” Thursday hardly heard himself say, his legs suddenly unsteady as nausea swept over him like a tidal wave. 

Knott’s eyes went wide. “Oh-” 

Strange fell down into his seat, hands clenched into fists. 

\------

Ten minutes later, a doctor came out to deliver the news. Morse had flatlined on the table and any effort to resuscitate him failed. Something about internal damage, hemorrhaging, but Thursday hardly heard him. One word stuck with him. Just one word. 

_ Gone.  _

“I’m truly sorry for your loss.” the doctor really did look morose, but it did nothing. Sympathy wouldn’t bring Morse back. 

Thursday caught a glimpse through the door as the doctor walked back into the corridor, spotting Gael emerging from a room that the doctor disappeared into. His blue scrubs were spotted with dark red, his face a pale sheet. Thursday watched the young man rip his mask and cap off, throwing them down before he stumbled into a wall and slid to the floor, burying his head in his hands. 

Thursday threw the chair again. 

This time, it broke. 


	3. Morse

_ “The world's long on academics, Morse, but woeful short of good detectives.” Thursday told the young constable only a few years ago. “Things as they are, I could use a permanent bagman. I mean, we did pretty well this time out. I'd see you right, of course, make sure we get you through your sergeant's exam. With the proper encouragement, who knows? What you've got to ask is, where do you see yourself in twenty years?” _

Twenty years. Because of that conversation, convincing Morse to stay with the police, with him in Oxford, he’d only seen three more. Hardly. 

_ “I’d see you right, of course.” _

A promise broken one too many times.

\------

The wake itself was bleak and unimpressive, much like the few others Thursday had attended before. Dorothea Frazil had shown up without notebook or camera, just a bouquet of lilies that someone eventually found a vase for. A handful of members of the public showed up, a few Thursday recognized either from past cases or the colleges, some strangers- rather, relatives of attending officers that Thursday just didn’t know. 

Small candles were lit and placed all around, scentless flames flickering in glass cups. Thursday passed his hand over one, feeling a brief wave of heat that did nothing to settle the perpetual chill that refused to leave his body. It had nothing to do with the room’s temperature, but everything to do with the reason they were there. Win took his hand and offered a reassuring smile that meant the world and more in that moment. 

“I should have killed him.” Thursday couldn’t keep the words to himself anymore. “I should have listened to Morse.”

Win shook her head. “You didn’t have a choice, Fred.”

He couldn’t make himself believe it. So many things could have gone differently. 

But it was too late for ‘could haves’. 

Gael arrived shortly after ACC Knott and some of his own constables. The nurse looked haggard, like he hadn’t been sleeping well, the dark rings under his eyes far from fading. He’d managed to put himself together nicely, anyhow. It was strange, seeing him in anything other than his uniform. 

He made short eye contact with Thursday when he came over to shake his hand, looking like he wanted to say something, but couldn’t find the words. Thursday just gave him a nod, and that seemed to settle it. Gael walked away into the small crowd, and one of Knott’s constables, a thin, dark haired chap with glasses and a crutch shared a few words with him, grasping his hand briefly. At least he had a friend in this. 

That constable wasn’t the only one that showed signs of injury. Tate’s arm was in a sling, and one officer was even in a wheelchair. A few tourniquets. Looking around the room, Thursday could see all the physical damage Mercer wrought that fateful day. Somehow there had only been one casualty among them. 

What Thursday wouldn’t give to change it. 

Thursday’s eyes fell on the casket but he couldn’t force them to linger. All he noticed was the polished wood and silver handles, a wreath on the top. Closed casket. Joyce had insisted. 

Only a few people seemed to be in the spirit of talking before the proceedings began. Joan had been gone from Oxford for nearly half a year then, and she’d managed to strike up conversation with WPC Trewlove who seemed more than happy for the distraction. The constable had taken a shining to Morse from the off, the two of them forming an unbeatable pairing of wit and cleverness. A few times, when cases were low and paperwork was done, Trewlove would bring up the portable chess set stashed under the tea tins in the makeshift ‘break room’ and two of them would play ceaselessly. Thursday had never seen so many stalemates in his life. 

There was a table with drinks that was all too tempting to Thursday. A few brandys would take the edge off, perhaps make him forget- but he couldn’t. Not at Morse’s funeral. It would be disgraceful. 

He remained sober and suffered through it all. 

Bright gave a long speech, detailing Morse’s progress in his career, his list of accomplishments and commendations. His uniform was immaculate, all shiny medals and colourful badges across the front. Thursday was glad to be in just a suit when he went to read his bit. It was short, his own words lost on him, but he was sure he’d said what he needed to. 

Gael had a threadbare copy of a poetry anthology of Morse’s and read a short passage that put the Thursdays and Frazil to tears. DeBryn took out a handkerchief. 

_ “It’s for the best.” DeBryn had told Thursday when Division came to collect Morse’s body for their own autopsy. “I couldn’t bear to do it. You couldn’t bear to watch. They’ll handle things right, Inspector. Have faith.” _

When it came time to move the casket into the hearse, Thursday, Strange, and two constables took the role of pallbearers. The whole thing was so damned efficient, it unsettled him. 

In a matter of minutes they were driving off to the cemetery, flanked by police vehicles, sirens flashing silently. 

\------

There was a clear divide between those attending the burial, ACC Knott’s men in a straight line on one side, CID on the other, family and public somewhere in between. Everyone held a rose, and group by group, they were silently placed atop the casket- Thursday couldn’t bear to call it a coffin, that was somehow worse. 

The barren trees seemed to claw up into the sky, branches twisted and tangled in the effort to reach upward into the heavens. Thursday didn’t believe in such things, and he would say so if asked, but for the briefest moment he entertained the idea of heaven and hell, knowing that Morse would be in the former. If those trees ever reached high enough perhaps they could pluck him back down, bring him back. 

It was a foolish, absurd thought, one he shut down as quick as it came. He turned his attention back on the people around him, desperate for a distraction. 

The constable that Gael had been seen with earlier kept readjusting his grip on the crutch he was holding, Thursday noticed. The officer in the wheelchair kept trying to move his injured leg into a more comfortable position. The inspector was just trying to focus anywhere but the sight he didn’t wish to see. But he had no choice when Bright stepped up to the casket and his men followed in suit, saying their short words, setting the flowers atop the wreath and Frazil’s lilies. 

Gael was the first to move among the remaining people, Win and Joan right after, and Frazil and DeBryn following closely. A man Thursday didn’t recognize was next, light haired and clean shaven with a peculiar nose. 

He barely got within a metre of the coffin before the constable with the crutch shoved a man aside and surged forward, drawing a gun from his coat with a hoarse shout of “STOP!”, eliciting gasps and a small scream from the crowd gathered. Thursday tried to move forward, wondering  _ what in the bloody hell was happening _ when Bright threw out an arm, holding him back. DeBryn pulled Frazil aside and reached out for Gael, but he shrugged the pathologist aside, taking his own route toward- 

Why was he walking  _ toward  _ him?

The man began to growl, but there was shock in his eyes. “It’s  _ you!  _ How-”

“Gael, now!” the bespectacled constable shouted. Edwards threw himself at the man, tackling him to the ground and wrestling him onto his chest with only minor difficulty. Gael pressed down hard on the man’s right shoulder and he just about screamed. In one swift move Gael withdrew a syringe from his jacket, tore the cap off with his teeth, and sunk the needle in the man’s neck, depressing the plunger. 

In less than a minute, he’d gone limp. Bright took a pair of handcuffs from the constable and locked them around the man’s wrists, reaching for his face and removing a false nose and peeling segments of some fleshy substance from his cheeks that had given him fuller looking features. 

With the beard, hair dye, and prosthetics now gone, they were left staring at the unconscious form of James Mercer. 

“What-” Thursday began, and Strange made a shocked sound, looking at Bright with questioning eyes.

The chief superintendent glanced at ACC Knott. “Shall we?”

“Yes.” Knott grinned, striding forward and clapping his constable on the back. “Well done, man. Let’s give them something else to look at, eh?”

The constable scoffed and put his gun away. In slow procession he removed his hat, letting it fall to the ground, revealing what Thursday had only glimpsed before- curly, dark brown locks that fell right across his forehead, reaching even darker eyebrows. The glasses were next, but these he gave more care to, folding them and tucking them into his pocket. 

Now, those eyes were visible. 

Eyes that could be recognized anywhere. 

Shocked gasps rippled through the crowd and Thursday almost felt his knees go weak, unsure if he was seeing things right. 

“Morse?” he didn’t trust himself to say, but did anyway. 

It was Morse, but- it wasn’t. 

His hair was darker, brows thicker, and his jaw seemed to have a different line to it, but Thursday took a few steps forward, and the not-quite-Morse readjusted his grip on the crutch, a sliver of a smile on his face. 

“You look surprised, sir.” he said in a hoarser version of Morse’s voice. 

It was like looking at a mirage. It was so much like Morse, yet so wrong in many little ways. A mole on his chin, the lack of faint freckles, the colour of his hair, and his eyes seemed deeper set, his face a bit thinned out. 

But they were  _ Morse’s eyes.  _

“This should help,” Gael came forward and angled the man’s face toward him, wiping it down with a white square of cloth. Flesh toned pigment came away bit by bit-  _ cosmetics-  _ and soon those freckles appeared. The contours that made his jaw appear differently were now gone, and even the mole had vanished. His lips were paler, brows thinner but still dyed dark. Shadows around his eyes were done away with. 

Without the make-up the man underneath it all looked pale, almost ill now that the healthy tone provided by the cosmetics was gone. 

It was Morse. Without a doubt. 

Alive.

Joan flew forward and wrapped her arms around him, and he grimaced, almost doubling over like he’d been shot- well, he  _ had  _ been _. Twice.  _

“God, I’m sorry!” Joan yelped, releasing him as his face went even more ashen, but he smiled nonetheless and accepted a gentler version of the embrace instead. 

Thursday pushed ACC Knott aside and threw the lid of the casket open, flowers tumbling to the frost tipped grass. There was no body within, just three twenty-kilogram weights. 

Somehow, there had never been one. He turned back to look at Morse as Strange and Trewlove peered inside the casket to see for themselves. 

“You’re alive.” Thursday could only say, dumbstruck, staring at the impossible sight before him. 

Morse had the nerve to look confused. “I thought you knew, sir- they- they were supposed to say. Did they not tell you?”

“No, we didn’t.” Knott confirmed, stepping up to the small group, raising his voice just loud enough for everyone to hear. “See, Sergeant Morse here figured out rather correctly that the reason Mercer took so long to move between cities was that he was staying around to attend his victims’ funerals. We’d come up with that same conclusion up at Division shortly before the bank robbery. After hearing Sergeant Morse had been shot, I went to the hospital to assess his condition to see if perhaps we could use it to our advantage. Apparently Morse had been able to relay his understanding to Nurse Edwards here who then told me.” 

“Why Gael?” Thursday looked at Morse who sighed, lowering his head. 

“I did  _ try- _ ” Morse defended, his breaths growing shallower and Gael stepped up to help support him. “I tried to tell you. I tried to say ‘he stays, Mercer stays’, but you were getting it all confused. It was- it was too hard to talk.”

_ ‘Stay.’  _ Morse had said it so many times. ‘ _ He stays.’ _

_ Mercer stays.  _

“So how-”

“Morse code,” Gael held up a hand, wriggling his fingers. “Of all things.” 

Thursday remembered seeing Morse tapping his hand in the ambulance and felt like kicking himself. He’d thought it was a  _ song.  _

“Only a few people were to know he’d survived,” Knott’s eyes gleamed insufferably. “I ordered the doctors to stage the death, but still keep working until he was stabilized. They transferred him to a private ward and Edwards and a select few stayed almost around the clock to help him recover as quickly as possible, at least in time for the funeral.”

“But you didn’t need him for the funeral.” Trewlove crossed her arms, glaring daggers at the man. “You didn’t even need a body. Someone else could have identified Mercer for him.”

Knott shrugged. “It’s possible.”

“I wanted to do it.” Morse said softly, closing his eyes and wincing. “I told ACC Knott I only needed to be well enough to stand for a while. It was my idea to take a leaf out of Mercer’s book and disguise myself. It would shock him enough to keep him from bolting the moment a weapon was drawn. Then, Gael would sedate him. Knott provided the uniform, and a nurse did the dye and cosmetics.”

DeBryn had fetched a wheelchair from his vehicle that Gael helped ease Morse into, and the sergeant leaned back into it wearily, hugging his arms to his chest. He should still be in hospital, not a graveyard in the dead, late winter cold. 

As if on cue, an ambulance quietly rolled up to the scene, and Morse looked at it, his features twisting into irritable distaste. 

_ There he is,  _ Thursday thought with relief.  _ There’s our Morse.  _

“Who knew?” Strange asked, looking at Bright with an accusatory glare. “Who knew he was still alive?”

“It was a need to know basis,” Knott threw his hands wide. “If it makes you feel any better, Morse refused to cooperate unless I informed you all on the matter. His list was too long so I took my own liberties.”

“You lied.” Morse spat venomously, but he looked far from threatening in his condition. 

Knott didn’t seem phased by the accusation. “I needed Nurse Edwards, of course. Him, and Chief Superintendent Bright and Dr. DeBryn at the very least so the family wasn’t out of their heads with grief- and of course we had to explain the lack of a body. I convinced Ms. Frazil here not to run any sort of story or eulogy in the paper so Mercer didn’t get any credit or recognition, but she didn’t really know.”

The call to Joyce had been a complete sham. Or at least Bright’s account of it was. 

Unbelievable. 

“You threatened to have us all sacked,” DeBryn looked furious on behalf of Bright and Gael. 

“It had to be convincing for Mercer!” Knott exclaimed, the man seeming surprised at the amount of hostility. “He was a mass murderer and police killer who was perhaps days away from fleeing the country! The reactions had to be genuine, Mercer had to be completely fooled. I was  _ not  _ going to jeopardize an operation as elaborate as this just to spare some feelings from getting hurt!”

Joan slapped him across the face. Hard. 

Thursday almost beamed with pride. 

Knott’s face went red and he made a sharp move toward her, but Thursday quickly stepped between them, drawing to his full height. “Try it. I dare you.”

Knott fell back, fuming. His men were gathering Mercer up and leading him to their car, which he took as his cue to leave, stepping away and leveling a finger at Morse and Gael. “I want that uniform back, lads.”

“Bite me.” Gael said, and Trewlove clapped. 

Bright set to work calming down the remaining confusion and Gael began to wheel Morse to the ambulance despite his protests that “I’m not an invalid”, but they fell on deaf ears. 

“I’ll see you at home,” Thursday promised Win and Joan, giving them each a kiss on the brow before following Morse into the ambulance, Gael and the driver already putting the cot back up. 

Morse let out a groan as he lay back on the stretcher, having shucked off the borrowed uniform jacket and letting it fall to the floor of the ambulance, a deliberate gesture against Knott that Thursday had to commend. He did actually smile at that. 

The lad looked worse for wear, slight spots of red showing from underneath his white shirt where he’d strained his stitches. His face still had that grey, ashy hue to it, but it was improving in the heat of the ambulance. The door shut behind them and Thursday sat next to Gael who was throwing a blanket over him and tucking it into his legs. 

“You’re impossible,” Gael chuckled when Morse tried to sit back up upon seeing Thursday, forcing the nurse to elevate the cot just enough to accomplish it. 

“I couldn’t be anything else,” Morse smiled wryly, and he looked at Thursday, face suddenly growing solemn. “I didn’t know what Knott was planning. You were the first person I asked him to tell after Joyce and Phil. I didn’t mean-”

_ I didn’t mean to make you worry. I didn’t mean to make you suffer.  _

Thursday sighed, running his hand through his hair and sitting back against the wall of the ambulance as they began to move. “Eight days is a long time to think you were dead, son. Too long.”

“I’m sure you enjoyed the peace and quiet.” Morse tried to joke. 

Thursday shook his head. “It was unbearable. Thinking I’d failed you, that you were gone, I just- I couldn’t. Don’t do this again, Morse. That’s an order.”

Morse arched an eyebrow.  _ God, he needed to wash that ridiculous dye out.  _ “Are you ordering me not to die, sir?”

“Damn right, sergeant.”

“Immortality by sheer stubbornness,” Gael chuckled. “Only Morse could accomplish such a thing.”

Morse started to laugh but it quickly transformed into a painful wheeze and he squeezed his eyes shut, leaning back into the cot, his breaths tight and measured. 

“For someone as smart as you, this was downright idiotic,” Thursday stated, looking Morse over. “You should be in hospital for another week at least.”

“Oh, believe me, he will.” Gael said firmly, shutting off Morse’s protests with a single look. Thursday wondered if that was a skill that he himself could obtain. “I half wanted to drug Knott for even agreeing to let him pull off this harebrained scheme.”

Morse closed his eyes and yawned, pulling the blanket up closer around him. It was funny, how with those blue eyes and now dark hair he almost looked like Thursday’s blood kin. 

“No one looks for a dead man in anywhere but his grave,” was all he said, lapsing into exhausted silence. 

Thursday took hold of Morse’s hand in both of his and the man looked surprised, but didn’t question it, letting himself fall into a shallow sleep. 

Mercer was in custody. Morse was alright. He was alive. He would heal in time. 

And he was about to have desk duty for a month. 

At least. 


End file.
